I was driving the other day, when I somehow tore the fabric of time.
There in front of me, was me, 12 years old, on a tiny BMX bike.
Flat flying down the road.
This particular bit is twisty and downhill, absolutely perfect for two-wheeling.
This kid, who was me, except that he wore a helmet, was slip-streaming off the car in front of him, unbeknownst to that driver.
He was totally flat down against the handlebars, offering as little resistance as possible to the wind, and being sucked down the road by the car in front.
Just after his pace car finally broke free, the kid shot through the S-turn, coming in high, exiting low, not even bothering to look for merging traffic from the right.
He peddled like hell for a few seconds, until his efforts paid no return, then he fell back into the slip-stream coasting mode.
It was beautiful.
Because this kid was way more than ballsy and fast.
He was in the zone. In the groove. And, surprisingly, totally aware.
He knew I was driving right behind him, and there was no way he was going to let me pass.
Every now and again, he’d peek back at me, under his arm mind you, then he’d return to the precise business at hand…
Hauling ass, just as fast as gravity and wind-cheating would let him.
After the adrenaline of the S-curve, the drop-off in the road gradually petered out.
From there on, internal combustion engines ruled.
So the Biker Hoon casually pulled off to the left, morphed back into being a little boy and, I swear, he started casually eating a bread roll.
He didn’t even shoot a glance at me, to see what I thought of his outlaw performance.
If he had done so, I would have grinned. Because he was me. And because the kid was good.